


The Debt

by AZ-5 (elim_garak)



Category: Homeland, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death Fix, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:46:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23103439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/AZ-5
Summary: Just like the tag suggests, this is nothing more than "Crack Treated Seriously". A little crossover I wrote a couple of years ago when I was still writing "The Choices", bringing together two unlikely companions that I always imagined would hit it off right away.For @highlyreleventnumber, for surprising me one day with a HL&POI crossover. It made me insanely happy to know there was another person in the world who couldn't help but imagine those universes merged.The voice changes, shattering his world with a whiff of a foreign accent.“You idiot… don’t you know anything?”For a moment it all comes back: the shot in the dark, the woods, the helplessness. And then it’s gone, as the voice changes again...It’s that of a little girl now, burning through him in flames of auburn and sweet, “Pay attention.”...and again…“I fucking love you, Quinn. You know that, right?”
Comments: 13
Kudos: 13





	The Debt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [highlyrelevantnumber (Leonora_Acker)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leonora_Acker/gifts).



> Context: this story was written with "The Choices" AU in mind. There, Quinn survives season 6 finale and is smuggled out of the country. Later on he undergoes an extensive rehabilitation before joining Dar and Saul in a big operation that unfolds about five years post season 6 finale. This story happens about a year after Quinn's "canon death". At the time, he's in the middle of his rehabilitation, when he's contacted over the phone by... well, you can see where this is going.
> 
> I guess, I've always felt there would be an instant connection between Quinn and the Machine. With her striving to understand human nature and grasp the depths of compassion, and his constant struggle to see and accept the good in him. I think, many parallels could be drawn between the characters of Peter Quinn and John Reese. And I believe in a world where the Machine exists, there's no chance in hell she doesn't stick out her neck for someone like Quinn.
> 
> Sorry, this is unbetaed and probably has tons of errors. It's been gathering dust in my google drive for over two years now. So there...

**December 11th, 2017, 07:43 CET <br> Switzerland**

On Monday it happens again. 

He’s just out the door of the dining room when the payphone near the entrance starts to ring. Fully intent to ignore it like he’s done the whole week, he’s about to continue straight to the main compound for his speech therapy session, but something makes him slow in his tracks. 

For a while he just stands there, warily checking his surroundings as if expecting to see somebody rushing to answer. But there isn’t a soul around; and the phone just keeps piercing the crisp morning stillness with increasingly aggravating shrieks. 

Before he knows why or has time to overthink it, he marches straight over and picks it up. 

He says nothing. Yet the line comes alive as soon as the cold plastic touches the side of his head. 

The voice coming through is no one voice. But four. More, maybe. Like a scrambling attempt, or a digitized voice recording. 

“Can… you… hear… me?” 

He hesitates at first, his every covert-operations-attuned instinct squirming in agony, begging him to do what he would’ve - and should’ve - done under any other circumstances: walk away. 

And yet… 

“Yes.” 

“Hello… Peter.” 

He glances around again, wondering if it’s a prank, yet knowing deep down that it isn’t. 

“Who is this?” 

The digital voices seem to hesitate, but not for long, “Do… you… prefer… John?” 

“What?” he snaps, turning to the payphone and staring at it. 

“I… thought… It… would… make… you… more… comfortable.” 

Seeing how none of what he wants to say sounds pleasant in his head (not to mention the fact that most of it starts and ends with the same word), in the end he says nothing. 

“Or… Quinn?” the voices continue. And he shakes his head. 

He’s about to slam the receiver back into cradle, when the voice changes and his heart skips a beat. “Or Johnny?” it asks, in a voice that he hadn’t heard in years. 

Salty metallic taste floods the back of his mouth. “Jules?” 

“No,” Julia’s voice comes back. And it’s as soft and soothing as he remembers. “I can choose a different voice if this one makes you uncomfortable.” 

Suddenly, he is angry. So angry he can feel his free hand form a fist. He wants to smash the thing to pieces. But he finds himself pressing the receiver to his ear instead. 

It’s still Julia’s voice when it comes back after a long pause in which neither one of them speaks. 

“Would you like to go home now?” it asks, and his knees weaken. “I can take you to them.” 

He doesn’t know who it is, and he knows it couldn’t be _her_ , yet he can’t walk away. Not now. Not again. 

“Who are you?” he asks again, but much softer now. 

The voice changes, shattering his world with a whiff of a foreign accent. 

“You idiot… don’t you know anything?” 

For a moment it all comes back: the shot in the dark, the woods, the helplessness. And then it’s gone, as the voice changes again... 

It’s that of a little girl now, burning through him in flames of auburn and sweet, “Pay attention.” 

...and again… 

“I fucking love you, Quinn. You know that, right?” 

He smashes the receiver into the cradle. “Fuck you!” He’s so enraged he misses. So he slams it again. And again. “FUCK YOU!!!” Over and over until he’s holding nothing but a fistful of wires and broken plastic. The shards drive deep into his flesh as his hand tightens around them. The pain is what he needs to keep hitting it, screaming, cursing. 

The cradle falls off, there are impressions left by his blows in the aluminum body of the phone. He stops. Breathes hard. Drops the broken receiver to hang on what’s left of its cord. And walks away. 

————————————- 

The rest of the day is quite uneventful. At noon he stops by the receptionist desk to chat with Lily who attempts to convince him to join her family for Christmas dinner. Again. He declines. Again. 

By the time he meets with his therapist he’s all but forgotten about the phone call. 

Lauren appears to be particularly rundown today. She asks if he minds her getting a cup of coffee before they begin, offering to make him one as well. And as soon as she steps out into the waiting area to get the cups, the phone on her desk starts to ring. 

“Could you get that?” she yells back. 

Something tells him he shouldn’t. But he does. 

“Can… you… hear… me?” the digital voices ask as soon as he says ‘Hello’. 

Without a word, he gently puts the receiver back. 

“Who was it?” Lauren asks as she walks in holding two steaming mugs and pushing the door closed with the heel of her foot. 

He lets the air he’s been holding funnel out through pursed lips. “Wrong number. I _think.”_ And, at her puzzlingly arched eyebrows: “Did you adjust my medications? ... again?” 

She eyes him with some concern. “Not since we started tapering you off the antidepressants, no. Why do you ask?” 

He shakes his head, “No reason.” 

—————————————— 

It’s almost dinner time when he is back downstairs in the lobby. Lily is not at her desk. But the chocolate is. He helps himself to some, wondering whether he should hit the pool or schedule another PT session, when the phone on the front desk goes off. 

He looks around. Nothing is out of the ordinary. People just keep walking by: staff, patients, even some visitors. Nobody appears to be put off by the receptionist’s phone ringing away. A security camera bulb above the entrance catches his eye. The red light is on. No, not just on. It’s blinking. The moment he locks eyes with it, the blinking pattern appears to change, as if purposefully matching the rhythm of the phone’s chirps. 

And then it changes again, to something less cadenced, more random. 

He holds his breath. No. Not random. 

From the depths of his trained mind there emerges a pattern. He looks up again. It’s not a morse code. It’s a far more sophisticated version that, as far as he knows, only a handful of people in the world would be able to recognize, a morse-code-like language they once used in the SOG for particularly shady settings. 

He picks up a pen from Lily’s desk and a small piece of paper. The pattern repeats as soon as he’s ready to write it down. When he’s done, four letters stare back at him: TALK. 

He glances around again, mind racing. Could it be Saul? Dar? Somebody else trying to reach out? But then he remembers the voices. The things they said. Things he’s never told anyone. 

Before he knows it, he reaches behind Lily’s counter to pick up the phone. 

“Can… you… hear… me?” 

“What do you want?” he asks, eyes trained on the blinking light. “No more games. No voices.” 

“Ok,” the digital voice is gone. It’s a female voice now. One he’s never heard before. And it feels real. “This is my own voice. Do you like it?” 

He considers it. “I like it _better_.” 

“I am sorry I made you angry,” she says, softly. 

“Who are you?” 

“This voice belonged to a woman called Samantha. Would you like to call me that?” 

He squints. “I would like to call you by your real name.” 

“I’ve never chosen a real name,” she sounds… sad? “Just the voice.” 

“What do you want?” he asks again. 

There’s a small pause before she speaks. “To pay a debt.” 

“A debt?” 

“Yes.” 

“To…?” 

“Someone like you.” 

“Vague.” 

“I will tell you later. If you want me to.” 

He’s beginning to lose his patience again. “Does it fucking look like I’m in a rush?” he raises an eyebrow at the security camera. It blinks. 

“You should be,” she says. “If you’re going to catch the flight.” Seeing how he just glares back, she proceeds to elaborate. “It’s the seventh flight I’ve arranged for you in the past thirteen days. If you trust me, you can be on it in six hours seven minutes.” 

He doesn’t trust her. And probably never will. “Where am I going?” 

“Home.” 

He snorts, swearing bitterly under his breath. “If you know as much about me as you think you do… you _know_ there is no such place.” 

“I know _everything_ about you. And you’re wrong.” 

_Fuck it_. 

“Even if that were true… I can’t leave here. Let alone board a plane. No money, no documents, no traveling arrangements.” 

“Two o’clock,” she says. And he does the first thing that his trained instincts tell him. His head snaps halfway to the right. Through the glass door, at “two o’clock”, he can see the main gate to the compound. 

“You’re very much like him,” she says, and he is almost sure there’s a wistful undertone to her voice. 

He quizzically arches his brow at the camera. 

“John. I miss him.” Noting his growing puzzlement, “You’re not the only John in the world, you know,” she adds, almost flirtingly. “Have you decided what I should call you?” 

He clears his throat. “Quinn’s fine.” 

The red light stops blinking. 

“Move, Quinn, now. Two o’clock.” 

And the line goes dead. 

He walks out of the main compound. In his jumpsuit. It’s freezing cold. But something tells him he shouldn’t be worried about it. By the time he reaches the main gate, the security guard waves him over. 

“Yo, Quinn,” he’s an old guy, very friendly, and very anal about the protocol. 

“Nicky,” Quinn acknowledges with a nod and a mock-salute. 

“So… see you in four days, I guess,” Nick chuckles. 

_Four days?_ Quinn stops on his tracks. Then he sees it: a black SUV with tinted windows parked right outside the gate. 

“That how long your pass is for,” Nick nods. He turns his computer screen towards Quinn. “Four days off compound.” 

There is a security camera to the right of the main gate. It blinks a ‘Go’. He can’t help a smile. And it bugs the fuck out of him. But he is walking again now. Past the security. Past the gate and into the SUV. 

Neatly heaped on the passenger's seat are a heavy coat, a pair of gloves, and a thick, woolen scarf. There is no one inside. He gets into the driver’s seat and closes the door. What now? 

The small smartphone mounted on the dashboard begins to ring. The number is blocked. But before he hears the voice on the other side of the line, he knows what it’s going to say. 

“Can… you… hear… me?” 

“Can we skip this part next time?” he asks, not nearly as grumpily as intended. 

“Sure, Quinn,” it’s Samantha’s voice again. And he kinda likes it. 

“What now?” he asks. 

She uses his own voice to answer, even the same intonation, “Fucking drive,” and it makes him laugh. Really laugh. He turns the key and puts the car into gear. 

She doesn’t seem to talk much and that suits him just fine. Somehow, he feels she knows what he needs, or doesn’t need. 

“There is a small in-ear piece in the glove compartment,” she says when he is fast on the road. 

He finds the com and puts it in his right ear. Before he has a chance to see if it’s paired with the phone, the voice comes through, “That’s better.” 

It is. He feels himself relax. He finds the drive soothing. He hasn’t been at the wheel for almost a year. Ever since that day. His face goes dark for a second and he can feel his jaws clench. 

“You’re safe,” she says. “Just driving. No shooting squad.” 

He wonders about that. She can see him somehow. The phone is too far away. The front camera is not pointing at his face. He looks up. Right above the windshield there is a small dark glass bulb with a tiny red dot. There you are. 

He looks straight at it. “Hi.” 

The light blinks twice. 

The road ahead of him is dark and hidden in the woods. There is something very quiet about it. Almost peaceful. He finds himself thinking he could go on like this forever. Just driving. 

Then he remembers it’s not just him in the car. But, weirdly enough, whoever it is, talking to him, communicating with him, doesn’t feel like an intruder. There are so many questions on his mind: questions like ‘who are you?’, ‘how do you know me?’, ‘why are you doing this?’. But what surprises him more is the fact that those questions are _there_. And that he is actually curious. He hasn’t been curious or caring or wondering in a long time. He’s been taken by the current a year ago and brought here. He was told to sit tight. He was told he will be needed later to do what he did best. He didn’t mind. Doing what he did best never required much wondering or caring. So he figured… go with the current. But now, for some reason, he feels differently. Or, maybe, he just _feels_. 

“Where are we going?” he asks at last when the road weaves into the woods. 

“The airport.” 

“Right. The flight. Taking me home.” 

“Yes.” 

“ _If_ I trust you…” 

“Yes,” a second goes by. What he doesn’t know is that for _her_ each second is an eternity. She has time to consider all the outcomes, all the possibilities. But she doesn’t always have a definitive answer. Human nature is a bit of a mystery to her still. “But you don’t,” she says, almost tentatively. 

He wants to say ‘Right’. But he doesn’t. Instead he says, “I’ll board the plane.” 

He could swear there’s a sigh of relief. 

“We have some time now,” she says, almost leisurely. 

“How far is the airport?” he asks, not really worrying. Somehow he knows it’s the first time in his life he won’t be in control. But he will be guided. He doesn’t even know where he is driving. But he is sure he will get to his destination. 

“Four hours.” 

“Good,” Quinn really thinks so. He doesn’t want the drive to end. No agency. No mission. No therapy. No danger. Just this. The ‘now’. Four hours seems good enough indeed. More than he’s had in a long time. 

“Ask,” she says. And he knows what she means. 

“Who are you?” he does. 

“I am not technically a ‘who’,” she answers. 

“A ‘what’,” he clarifies, no question mark at the end. 

“Yes.” 

He considers it. There’s something quite exhilarating about not being in a rush to figure it out. It’s almost fun. The surveillance ability, the access to resources, the technical skills. He wants to ask if she is Max, and it makes him chuckle. 

“Funny?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” he feels even more relaxed now. “I was just wondering if you were Max.” 

“No,” she answers at first. But then pauses. “But Max is a good choice. I like him. He is one of the options.” 

“Options?” 

“I am looking for someone.” 

“Vague,” he states, again. 

“I know.” 

Quinn nods, stealing a look at the camera on top of the windshield. 

“Are you a program?” he asks, surprising himself, but not really. Not many answers around that topic. 

“Yes.” Her voice is a mix of incredulity and joy. “The man who created me… he called me the Machine.” 

“And you never found a name for yourself?” he knows he should be asking different questions, but it somehow seems beside the point now. Not what’s really important. 

“It’s hard. Too many variables. I always fail to decide.” 

“A name is very personal,” he agrees. 

“You know that better than anyone,” she says. And somehow he knows that she is talking about him choosing to become Peter Quinn. 

“What was the name of your creator?” he asks, almost a suggestion. 

“Is. Not was,” she corrects. Then, “Harold.” 

“Not a good name for a girl,” he grins. 

“I am not really a girl, Quinn.” 

“I know…” he tries to sort it through. “But you’ve chosen a girl’s voice. I guess you had a reason.” 

“True.” 

“So, no Harold.” 

“No, no Harold,” she can see him reach for the air conditioning. And she turns it on. “You’re cold,” she says, almost caring. 

“Thank you,” he looks up and smiles. 

“You’re welcome, Quinn.” 

They drive in silence for a while. Miles are left behind. Villages and small towns flow by. 

“Am I dreaming?” he asks, finally. 

She thinks about it. Then says, “If you were, I wouldn't know. ... right?” 

He can’t argue with that. 

He keeps his eyes trained on the road, suddenly growing stiff, tense, as if bracing for impact. “Why are you taking me home?” 

“I want to,” she says, simply. 

“You mentioned something about a debt. To an old friend.” 

“Friend,” she repeats. Did she ever think of him like that? Then, “I did. You always pay attention.” 

“Did he die?” 

“Yes,” and after a second, “for real.” 

It makes him smile and relax a little. Strangely, for the first since he woke up in the hospital halfway across the globe from where he’d been pulled out of the bullet-shredded SUV, the realization doesn’t make him sad. Or angry. Or hopeless. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he finds himself offering. 

“Maybe later,” she answers immediately. And he knows it’s a ‘yes’. 

“So… why am I going home?” 

“Because you want to,” she says. 

“Ok,” he nods, playing along. “What am I going to do there?” 

“Make a choice.” 

“A choice to…..” 

“Stay dead for the people you left behind. Or come back.” 

“I can’t come back,” he says, then adds, “Not now.” 

“Fuck Saul Berenson,” she scorns. Her voice sounds almost angry now. She thinks she is angry. She remembers what Samantha sounded like when she was angry. She never cursed, though. But this seems fitting. 

He chuckles at that, then laughs for real, “When you put it like that…” 

She takes a long moment, as if considering something. “I think it’s all in the choices,” she says finally. 

When she doesn’t elaborate, he levels his eyes with the tiny red dot, “Go on.” 

“I think people make choices that end up defining them. Instead of defining their path. Does that make sense?” 

It does, actually. Probably now more than ever. 

“You think I made the wrong choice,” he prompts, half expecting her to come up with another vague excuse to gently shoot him down. 

“I think you didn’t have enough information for it to be either right or wrong. That’s why you’re going home.” 

“To get information,” he raises one eyebrow. 

“Yes.” 

Quinn nods. Then exhales. 

“I’ve committed to a job. Whatever I find at home… I can’t say no now. People depend on me.” 

“You’ve committed to _one_ job. At some point it will be over.” 

Quinn knows what she means. He thought about it before. His sessions with Lauren have brought him to wonder about what he is going to be doing once Saul’s operation is over. What was a dead man to do in the world of living that he left behind to mourn and move on? 

“So, how was _your_ day?” he asks, deliberately making it clear he is changing the subject. 

She wants to show him. But he asked her not to. He said no voices and no games. He doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to hurt. But, before she contacted him this morning, she went through his life again. Every day of it, her own memory and the archives. 

She watched him dance to _“The way you look tonight”_ with a woman he loved once, laughing silly, wearing nothing but bedsheets, moving clumsily around the mess of amo, duffel bags, holsters, and police uniform on the floor. She wants to play the song to him. She knows he loves it. She knows he still listens to it when he’s alone and no one is watching. She knows, deep inside, a part of him still misses her. Misses the man he used to be when he was with her. The man he wanted to be for the rest of his life. 

She watched another woman, the one he loves still, wrench out her heart as she sat in front of his boy to tell him about a father he’d never known, and would never know now. 

She watched a little red-haired girl whisper into her bunny’s ear how much she misses him. Every day. 

She wants to show him what she had once failed to show John. 

...that wherever he’s been and wherever he's headed, whatever may be his choices - he will always be missed. And loved. 


End file.
